The Art of Love
by Arc Morpheus
Summary: Izzy was feeling as if all was not right in her life and marriage...but that was all about to change, when she took a chance on a whim...where would it lead her? Love with a dash of spice.


**A/N: I dedicate this piece to two souls who have departed for higher plains...**

**Summary: Izzy was feeling as if all was not right in her life and ****marriage... But that was all about to change, when she ****took a chance on a whim... Where would it lead her?**

The Art of Love ~ Love with a dash of spice

The summer heat in London was stifling, that kind of heat where you didn't want to walk more than a few yards outside, without darting for the air conditioning comfort of a store or coffee shop.

She had been unsettled all day at home, and decided to go out to try and clear her mind. She had no particular destination in mind when she slid behind the wheel of her Cobalt Blue Aston Martin DB9 Coupe, her one comfort she sought solace in more often these past few months. Who knew you could clock up 5,000 miles driving around the streets of London!

She found herself parked in the underground car park of her private Gym, and watched as the perfectly perfect people with their manicured nails and manicured hair go in and out the entrance. She sighed to herself...this was not where she wanted to be today. She pulled back out into the heavy London traffic and blasted the air conditioning up, hoping it would also blast away her state of mind or lack of interest in anything.

So her day continued in its usual unsatisfied way, she shopped and shopped but even losing herself in the crowds of Covent Garden boutiques and sitting in the coffee houses on Brick Lane people watching still did not ease her troubled mind.

Leaving her half finished cold expensive coffee, Izzy left a generous tip for the overzealous waiter and began wandering aimlessly down the road again, window shopping but not really letting her mind settle on anything in the windows. Her mind was far away, pondering over what the hell she was going to do.

As she ran through the things in her mind she could do to distract her thoughts, she realised that she had no work to complete as she had done all that yesterday. In fact, she had worked late into the night, what an idiot she was!

She could have done a number of things and saved her work for today, she could have flicked the channels and watched some totally uninteresting documentary, she could have logged onto her Fan Fiction and chatted away with her friends for a few hours, she could have read that book she's had for over two months on the bedside table. Or, as a last resort she could have called her mother, Esme, in Scotland for a late night natter, but her life was so mundane and uninteresting she would've run out of stuff to say within minutes. Darn, life was just shit right now!

She could have even, as another last resort, started a conversation with Emmett. He had stuck his head around the doorway of her home office once or twice last night, loitering with the intent to lure her away from her work: "Umm The Vampire Diaries is just starting, if you wanted to..." And the second time he loitered, "Umm, just made some coffee in the kitchen if you fancy a cup..."

See, the problem with Izzy's husband was that he never finished what he was saying lately - he was almost anticipating her refusal and subconsciously just going through the motions, like he knew what she was thinking was 'no'...plain and simply 'no' all the time. Damn, how had they both become like this? They were perfect for each other and now they were almost perfect strangers sharing the same living space but hardly functioning like a happily married couple.

She continued her wandering aimlessly, placing one foot after the other down the streets. Her mind started flitting through the thoughts she had kept tucked away for fear of facing them, her marriage was at an impasse as it seemed almost a stalemate...God, it was a depressing thought. She came to stop outside a small independent art gallery, one of many that had sprung up in Brick Lane recently. It was hosting a showing of a local artists, so on a whim with the thought of 'Why the hell not Izzy?', she walked into the gallery.

Here she felt instantly comfortable, here she could stand, stare and not speak or even think about another living soul. In fact it suited her mood perfectly. The gallery walls where all painted off white, the furnishings were also white with the occasional blood red flowers or perfectly placed or staged sculptures, It screamed at her of loneliness and solitude, and this appealed to her bleak mood more and more.

She moved slowly past the sculptures and paintings in the main gallery, until she came upon a doorway into a smaller gallery and brushed awkwardly against the door frame with her arm. She jumped with the shooting pain and slight shock of not noticing the small step in front of her.

One of the staff held out their hand to steady her as she walked the other way and Izzy mumbled "thank you" and walked into the same gallery. This room, although slightly smaller than the main entrance gallery only held one painting. It was not a large canvas but instead a much smaller piece, so much so that it drew you in towards it where it was situated on the back wall of the room.

The oil painting was of a woman looking pensive, directly at her, with a tight small smile, a smile that cut right through Izzy's mood. The woman in this picture seemed to have all that Izzy desired. She moved closer to the canvas looking closer at the detail, she had an urge to touch it, to pull the picture off the wall to try and get closer to the women captured there in oil. She raised one arm, fingertips outstretched; she was millimetres from touching the canvas when...

"Don't turn around," a voice breathed behind her. "Just act natural. Act like you and I are both just looking at the painting." Normally Izzy would whip around and pepper spray anyone who said that, her father had taught her well in the art of self defence, but this voice spoke with a knowing authority and it had to be obeyed. It made the hairs on her neck tingle, but in a very good way.

She continued to study the portrait - the lady was now smiling down at her, as if she knew what was about to happen and strangely approved. Izzy felt the heat of his masculine body behind her, wondering how close he was to her heated and flushed skin. Here was a complete stranger and she wanted nothing more than to lean back and mould against him, he felt so solid, so alive, so human.

"I've been watching you. You're the most beautiful work of art in this gallery." Instinctively, Izzy's body started to turn, but the voice continued. "Don't worry," the voice whispered, "I've seen your wedding ring. I'm not actually proposing anything. But I just wanted to tell you that fact." The voice was right in her ear now, lips just brushing the surface of her skin, sending bolts of goose bumps straight down her spine into her groin. "If you weren't married, I know exactly what I'd do with you."

There was a silence so tense that Izzy almost stopped breathing, she held her breath, and only released it when she realised he was obviously waiting for her reply so she encouraged him to continue with a whisper.

"Yes?"

"I'd take you to my home - I have one of those big four poster beds, the kind you only see in movies and museums? Wooden, with red silk and velvet. I'd tell you to strip, slowly, whilst I'd go into another room, but I'd keep watch through my secret window. You'd undress without self-consciousness, and I'd see the real, everyday beauty of your body, stripped of clothes, stripped of vanity."

While he spoke, his fingertips brushed and touched the back of her neck. His touch was so light she thought she might be imagining it, but then the warmth from his hands started to permeate her skin, and soon the impressions of his fingers glowed in vibrant detail.

"Before I came back in the room I'd let you drape yourself in a red silk sheet, until you got so carried away that you wouldn't care if _everyone_ saw you naked. You wouldn't care if we were in the middle of a motorway performing for the world to see. You would get _that_ carried away. I can guarantee it."

"You think I'm that easy?" she asked, her voice breaking uncomfortably with lust and confusion.

"No. I think I'm _that_ good!" the man laughed, a warm laugh that should be collected up and sold in cans for lonely women to open on cold Friday nights. "I'd tie your arms to the bedposts with two red silk scarves, for you are my artwork, to enjoy as I please. I would slowly draw down the red silk sheet, exposing every tiny inch of you. And I'd watch with joy as your nipples hardened up in the cold air. I'd unveil you, and then, starting slowly from your toes, I'd stroke my tongue along your leg, like a paintbrush, drawing you into existence. My tongue would trace each and every curve and hollow, and when one leg was done, I'd start with the other."

As he spoke, Izzy's legs nearly gave way. She felt like someone else completely and she was feeling good all over.

"I'm not making you uncomfortable am I?" his voice spoke suddenly, a different voice almost. "I could stop?"

"No, go on, I'm...intrigued."

"I'd kiss your body into life, your arms, each hand and every finger, your stomach. My mouth would settle on your breast, then I'd suck each nipple into life. Your mouth would ache for a kiss, but first I'd explore your neck, each little kiss and nip of skin getting closer until I reached your mouth, and for the first time you could taste me and I could taste you."

Her mouth almost watered for a kiss, but she remained motionless, willing him not to stop.

"It would be hell to tear myself away, but I would, travelling back down your neck, lingering on each sumptuous breast before moving slowly down. I'd kiss the edge of your - are you sure you want me to carry on?"

"If...y...you want," she said, her voice almost a growl now. Her mind had been completely taken over by her clitoris, and she knew now how men must feel almost every day.

"I definitely want. I want you. Where was I? Oh yes, I was gently nibbling your thighs. I would tease you, lick closer and closer to your moist centre, and then move away."

"Of course you would. You're that kind of guy."

Izzy had regained her confidence now, and spoke with a power that surprised her, and clearly delighted her seducer…or whatever he was.

"But I'm also the kind of guy who delivers. A single finger, I'd open you up, explore your deepness and darkness. I'd play with you and you'd cry out in the agony of unrequited lust, and then, only then, only when you begged, I would plunge my tongue deep inside you, and you would feel more alive than ever before, and your entire existence would collapse down into your groin. And you would be ready for me."

Izzy knew what he meant. Because she could feel the uncomfortable butterflies in her groin growing and fluttering, riding up into her newly moist pussy. Part of her wanted just to take her hand there and offer herself the relief she needed, but luckily, somewhere in her brain, some part of her remembered she was in public, in an art gallery.

"Listen, maybe I should just -" the voice taunted her.

"Finish the fucking story!" Izzy's lust filled voice burst forth.

"I would devour you. I would eat your pussy until you came, your entire body shaking - you're getting carried away now aren't you?"

Izzy had not realized how much her body was visibly shaking. The tremor started in her groin and radiated through her body, every nerve ending inundated with the most powerful orgasm she had ever experienced. She heard herself crying out, and she didn't care. A feeling as good as this, why should she care? The world went blank, a shower of tingling white stars appeared behind her closed eyes.

Once she recovered, she spun around, just in time to see the corner of a black leather jacket. She had to find this man. She rushed to the main gallery, knocking into a thin, nervous man, knocking his glasses off, who was clearly used to knocking into people. "Excuse me," he stammered, but Izzy had already rushed past, chasing a man who was walking out the door. Bursting into the main gallery, she saw two men in identical black leather coats about to step out the door.

"Wait!" she cried. They both turned - one a tall, movie star of a man with tousled bronzed brown hair and green eyes, the other an angry looking man in his sixties. She put a hand to her neck, where the fingerprints still burned. She waited for one of them to acknowledge her, to acknowledge what she had just experienced. She stared at the men, who stared back. Behind her, the nervous man had come into the room as well. Oh crap. He was wearing a black leather jacket as well.

"Sorry!" Izzy said flustered. She turned back towards the smaller gallery. She went in to the room, and looked at the painting in more detail. The woman in the painting was smiling with her still. She looked - she looked a little like Izzy. Actually she looked fucking gorgeous. Izzy stepped closer, and read the title.

"The Art of Love," it read, "Artist Unknown."

"You had this planned all along, didn't you?" Izzy whispered and giggled to the portrait, grinning like a school girl. And for the second time that day, Izzy found herself thanking an artwork. She was about to turn when she felt the man behind her again. She was about to swing around, but stopped herself. She didn't need to know, she just needed to feel.

"I come here every Thursday," he said, and her body, for a split second, remembered his words and touch.

Then he was gone. She waved goodbye to the portrait.

"I'll be back," she called to the portrait over her shoulder, as she left the gallery.

Outside, the world had become a cliché. The sky was blue, the sun was shining bright, the birds were singing in the trees, and she had a swing in her step. She fully expected a bluebird to land on her shoulder and a gospel choir to strike up the Hallelujah chorus.

She strained her ears, waiting. Instead, her mobile phone rang. A jolt back to reality: a client wanting a quote; then the bank wanting some details; an agency looking to put her on the books; her doctor…all calls to go back. Back to work, back to her life. Back home.

But on her way home, Izzy went to the fabric store.

That night seemed like every other recently. They passed the evening in virtual silence, and eventually Izzy excused herself. Emmett assumed she'd gone to the study, and he was preparing for a night slumped in front of the TV. He had just turned on the news at ten when Izzy entered the room and stood in the doorway, draped in nothing but a sheet of red silk.

"Darling, I'm just going to bed if you want to..."

She didn't need to finish the question.

They both knew that yes, this was one question he was going to answer with his body and soul, and he sure as hell did!

The End

Copyright © Arc Morpheus - 2010


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